


Berceuse

by engagemythrusters



Series: Six Pieces [5]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Fluff, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23814712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engagemythrusters/pseuds/engagemythrusters
Summary: Ianto’s on the sofa. Being a downer. Not that that’s anything new.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Series: Six Pieces [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697989
Comments: 6
Kudos: 118





	Berceuse

**Author's Note:**

> Related: Rooftop Sonata in C Major, Fugue, Cantabile, Theme and Variations.  
> This has been in my drafts since March... and now it isn't...

Blankets adorn him like a king—a sad, depressing king; one with the worst kingdom in the history of kingdoms. A kingdom that spans across an entire small flat and no more, that rules not one single person. Kind of a shit kingdom. Then again, he’s kind of a shit king. It evens out.

It’s barely five in the morning. Jack’s in the kitchen, attempting to make breakfast for them, probably in good spirits and having the time of his life, just like every bloody morning. Ianto’s on the sofa. Being a downer. Not that that’s anything new.

He can’t help it, really. He probably should be able to, but... god, last night was shit. And he feels like shit. His stomach has been churning and his head feels like someone took it through a blender. His throat feels tight and wrong.

God, isn’t this supposed to be done by now? Isn’t he supposed to be better? He should be. He’s put Jack through so much and stretched Gwen so thin and made his own life so miserable... He should be better.

Then why is it, every time he closes his eyes, that he can see Jack’s blood painting the inside of his eyelids a sickening red? That Lisa’s screams echoes in his ears? That he can still smell the burnt ash of human flesh, that he can taste the way it did when it coated the inside of his mouth, back at—

He feels his eyes go wide as his throat contracts, and abandons his blankets and sofa in a mad dash for the bathroom. He barely makes it to the toilet before the contents of his stomach came back up. His insides twist and writhe and his throat burns with acid, but he just keeps heaving until he can’t anymore. Then, to his dismay, he begins to cry.

It’s not gasping, wracking sobs, merely silent tears leaking from his eyelids as he leans forward and presses his forehead to the rim of the toilet. His body feels shaky and tense. Nothing new. Just unpleasantly mixed with post-vomit guts.

“Ianto?”

He doesn’t need to look up to know that Jack’s standing in the doorway, taking in this ungodly pathetic sight.

“I’m fine,” he replies, and it echoes around in the toilet bowl.

Jack comes into the bathroom anyway, gathering up Ianto’s gross, sweaty body and pulling it off and away from the toilet.

“Don’t,” Ianto mumbles. “I’m disgusting.”

“Hm,” Jack says, and that’s all.

He wraps himself loosely around Ianto.

“I need a shower,” Ianto tries to tell him again.

“In a moment.”

And Ianto feels inexplicably frustrated, for a moment, because he’s trying to get Jack away, trying to make Jack realise he’s an unhygienic sack of nothingness, but all Jack does is press his forehead into Ianto’s hair and give his sweaty exposed shoulder a gentle kiss.

“Jack,” he begins, then changes the rest of his sentence halfway through, urgently shoving Jack away from him.  _ “Jack.” _

Jack lets go almost instantly, and he throws himself forward, clinging to the toilet again as he heaves and heaves and heaves, his stomach refusing to relent as it desperately tries to purge itself of everything. And, despite the drama of it all, very little actually comes up, which pisses him off for reasons he can’t explain.

But Jack’s hand is there, running it’s way up and down the back of Ianto’s neck, ignoring Ianto’s shuddering and shivering as he tries to soothe Ianto. Then it leaves, just as Ianto starts to rely on it for sanity. Ianto lets out a shaky near-whimper into the toilet bowl, and he hates himself for it. The hand returns almost in an instant, but this time it’s trying to get Ianto to sit up, which he doesn’t want to do.

“Come on,” Jack murmurs, “you need to rinse your mouth out.”

Ianto reluctantly lets Jack help him sit up, then takes the offered cup. The water sloshes around as his hands refuse to still, and Jack has to help him take a sip. He spits the foul water into the toilet, and Jack takes the cup away and put it by the sink, then grabs a tissue to dab away at the sweaty sheen on Ianto’s forehead. He returns to the floor after, where he rewraps himself around Ianto, letting Ianto tremble into him as he plants kisses into Ianto’s hair.

“That’s got to be it,” Jack says softly. “You didn’t eat much yesterday.”

Ianto just sits there, because nothing he can think of is worthy to give as a response.

Someone’s mobile rings. Jack’s, by the sound of it. Jack sits Ianto up against the wall of the bathroom, giving him a last, reluctant kiss on the forehead before he leaves.

Ianto doesn’t stay upright for long. The cool bathroom tile beckons to him, and he slides down to greet it, trembling away on top of it. He just wants to curl up and lie here for the next thousand years or so. His stomach is empty and so is his chest. He’s so empty and nothing will ever fill the gaping hole.

Time passes. He’s not sure how much, but he can feel it stretching along, taking spent breaths and shivers as it goes.

He hears footsteps returning, then sees Jack’s feet in front of his face.

“You alright down there?” Jack asks.

“Why do I feel like this?” comes out of Ianto’s mouth without Ianto’s permission.

“Well, that was just Rhys, and he says Gwen’s got the same issue. Stomach bug. I’d say it was the Antaran we met yesterday. I was inoculated against their spores when I was a kid, but you and—“

Ianto hardly even notes the abrupt cutoff. There’s a chipped tile by the door and he’s staring at that, wishing that it would somehow fix all of this. Not that tiles can do anything except be tiles, but _something’s_ got to save him from this eternal nightmare. So who knows.

“Hey,” Jack says.

And then Ianto’s being unceremoniously hauled up from the tiled floor, back into Jack’s arms. He’s loose and pliable, so be sort of melts into Jack awkwardly. Jack doesn’t seem to mind, but Ianto’s uncomfortable, either mentally or physically—he can’t tell which.

“Martha said it would take four to six weeks,” Jack reminds him. “It’s only been three.”

Feels like it’s been longer than that, to Ianto. Feels like it’s been forever.

“That,” Jack says, “and you haven’t taken anything today, and you just vomited up yesterday’s stuff...”

Jack makes a contemplative noise.

“Maybe I should call Martha,” he says. Ianto can hear the frown in his voice. “Make sure this doesn’t mess it up.”

Ianto focuses on the fingers absentmindedly snaking their way through his hair.

“I should shower,” he says eventually.

“Alright.”

Jack pushes Ianto upright again, and Ianto contemplates making his escape back to the tiles below. Too late—Jack’s already standing up and pulling Ianto along with him.

“What are you doing?” Ianto asks as Jack starts to pull his pants off.

“Getting ready to shower,” Jack replies, stepping out of the discarded pants. “You can barely stand on your own. I’m not having you sit on the floor of the shower.”

Ianto wants to sit on the floor, though. Or, more exactly, he doesn’t want Jack to waste more time on him. Jack’s supposed to be working on—

“Breakfast,” Ianto groans.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack says immediately. “I’ll put it away for another time and make you some toast, if you can stomach it.”

But Ianto’s a worrier by nature. He worries about everything: Torchwood, Gwen, the state of the Archives, the fate of the world, Jack... He can’t _not_ worry. It’s his job to worry.

“It’s  fine ,” Jack tells him gently, as if he knows what’s going through head.

And before Ianto can protest, Jack starts the shower and ushers him in.

It feels nice, standing under the spray. He leans against Jack trying to soak in every last droplet as they patter soothingly onto his hot skin. About halfway in, as Ianto makes a meagre attempt to wash his hair, Jack begins absentmindedly humming something as he tries to help. It’s soft and sweet, and it vibrates against Ianto’s chest with every new pitch.

Jack is still humming it when he they step out of the shower. Ianto has regained enough energy to drag himself back to the sofa, to his throne of pathetic blankets. Jack follows him there and begins folding the blankets over and around him, then sits with him. They slowly start drifting sideways, and somehow Ianto ends up curled up on the sofa as Jack lays half on top of him, half beside him. It’s a small sofa. Not much room.

It’s almost five thirty in the morning now. Jack’s fingers dance softly across Ianto’s skin as he continues to hum that same tune. Everything is still. There’s still a hole in Ianto’s chest, but it’s hard to feel, now that the world isn’t a tumultuous jumble. It’s just Jack and Ianto on the sofa, not moving, being serenaded by Jack’s humming. There’s nothing else but this.

Ianto closes his eyes, and for once, sees nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> It could be any berceuse, really, but my favourite is Respighi’s. But I swear to god, if you think Brahms's Wiegenlied fits here... politely go away.  
> Thanks for reading! Have a nice day!


End file.
